


Merry Christmas, Steve Harrington

by ohmybgosh



Series: this could be the place [6]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, SO MUCH FLUFF, mistletoe trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13103904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: Steve takes advantage of the Christmas decorations





	Merry Christmas, Steve Harrington

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from tumblr: billy goes to steves house late super near christmas after something happened with his dad and steve makes him hot chocolate and steve subtly moves them towards this mistletoe and billy is all blushy but is trying to hide it by smirking and its really fluffy and christmas-y (sorry i don't have good english, its the only language i speak but I'm????)
> 
> Here you go! Some fluffy harringtove mistletoe kisses <3 Idk what Steve's parents' names are or what they look like, but this is how I imagined them haha

“Steve, Sweet Pea, can you put this up for me?” 

Steve, kneeling on the floor in the living room, in freshly ironed pants and a crisp button down, green tie around his neck, elbows deep in a box of tinsel, looked up. 

His mother, a short, thin woman, with thick brown hair like Steve’s, going gray, stood on her tiptoes above the stairs, trying to tack a sprig of mistletoe to the ceiling. 

He smiled. He was always reaching things for his mom. 

He got his height and his cockiness from his father (he was working on the latter); but his hair, his deep brown eyes, his freckles, and his warmer heart, he got from his mother. 

Steve stood, brushing stray tinsel off of his arms, and made his way to the stairs, taking the mistletoe from his mother and standing up on tiptoes to attach it to the ceiling.

“Oh, look, mistletoe!” his mom said merrily, and reached up, before he could duck out of the way, to plant a red lipsticked kiss on his cheek. 

“Mom,” Steve groaned, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. 

“Sorry, Sweet Pea.” She started towards the kitchen. “Throw the tinsel around the tree, won’t you, darling?” 

“It’s all tangled up,” Steve sighed, nudging the box of tinsel with his toe. 

“So untangle it,” his mother said, opening the liquor cabinet and trying to reach for the fancy vodka on the top shelf. 

Steve came to her side, grabbed the bottle and passed it over.

“Your father wants everything set up by the time he gets home. Apparently Carl Wickham from Wickham and Co. is coming tonight. He’s interested in doing business with your father’s company, and he’s a very big name in the remodeling business.” His mother said all this while pouring out equal amounts of vodka into their finest crystal glasses, all laid out on a silver tray on the counter. She went to the fridge taking out the eggnog and adding that too, finishing it off with a sprinkle of nutmeg and a sprig of mint. “He’s very stressed about the party.”

“Is that why you’re breaking out the vodka?” Steve said, picking up a glass and bringing to his lips.

His mom snatched it out of his hands and set it back on the tray, picking up the tray and putting in the fridge. “Steve.” 

“Sorry, Mom.” 

He tried not to be bitter, especially in front of her. It was easier, when he was little and hadn’t understood the meaning of the word “neglect”, always assuming that his dad was busy with work. And his dad was a self-diagnosed workaholic. But that didn’t change the fact that he had never really wanted kids, and it took a lot of effort for him to show interest in his son.

Steve loved his dad, though. And he knew his dad did love him, somewhere underneath his love of big cigars and expensive vodka, golf and the Country Club in in the summer, his company and complaining about poor people. 

Steve’s mom gave him a disapproving look over her shoulder as she closed the fridge. She was a no-nonsense parent, absolute with punishment, but always making sure he had everything he needed. She wasn’t overly loving; they didn’t say “I love you” often in the family and sometimes Steve felt stupid for craving a hug goodbye before he went to school in the morning. Nancy said that was the reason Steve was so “openly affectionate” (the way she said it though sounded like “clingy” to Steve, which he guessed he was at times). But Steve knew his mom loved him, much more than his dad did, because she still called him “Sweet Pea” and kissed his cheek when he wasn’t paying attention. 

A knock sounded on the front door, echoing through the mostly empty house. Steve’s mom looked up, brow furrowing.

“That better not be someone an hour early,” she grumbled. She stomped to the front door. Steve heard it swing open and his mom’s “oh!” of surprise. 

“Billy,” she said. 

Steve snapped around so fast his neck cracked. Swearing, rubbing his neck, he darted to the front door. 

“I didn’t know you were coming over,” his mom said, giving Steve a reproving look over her shoulder.  

“Sorry, Mom!” he said breathlessly, standing beside her. “I, um, forgot to mention it.” 

Billy stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame casually, flashing that devilish grin at Mrs. Harrington. He looked put together, as put together as Billy ever was, in his  _ Metallica _ t-shirt, leather jacket, tight jeans, and silver earring dangling. But Steve had been spending a lot of time with Billy - he guessed they were technically friends now - and he didn’t miss the way Billy’s chest was heaving, as if he’d just run a marathon, and the way he kept tugging his sleeves down, trying and failing to cover up the angry red mark on his wrist. 

“Sorry, Mrs. H,” Billy said easily. He was using that tone, the one he used on Mrs. Wheeler when they went to pick Nancy up for a smoke drive, and on their French teacher when she scolded him for being late, and on a police officer that one time they were at an end-of-the-season banger at the team captains house. (That had been a memorable one; the police showed up at 10:30, flashlights on and wearily corralling drunk high schoolers in the front yard. Steve, unaware, had been in the kitchen, searching for his beer, when Billy grabbed him, hauling him to the bathroom and saying “C’mon, Harrington, we gotta bounce.” They climbed with difficulty out of the bathroom window, fairly drunk. Billy went first; Steve heard him land and went to jump out. Billy hissed “Steve!” in warning but it was too late, Steve had already dropped down, landing with a painful  _ thump _ on Billy’s lap. 

“Smooth getaway, boys,” someone said. 

Steve blinked in the bright beam of the flashlight. Billy, pushing Steve aside, stood, his voice already silky. 

“Officer,” he began.

“What going on over here?” came another voice, and then, with a deep sigh, “That you, Steve?” 

Steve, shielding his eyes, saw the familiar wide brim of a hat. “Hey, Hopper.”)

Billy always tried to turn the charm on Steve’s mom. Steve could’ve told Billy that it didn’t work, but he refrained, because it was kind of amusing to see Billy still trying to win her over, oblivious to the withering looks she gave him and the way she rolled her eyes at the ceiling. 

“Hi, Billy,” she said shortly. “Come in, then, it’s cold outside.” 

Winking at Steve - Steve grimaced at him - Billy stepped inside, wiping his boots on the mat. He knelt down to undo his laces. 

Steve’s mom jerked her head at the kitchen and he followed her. 

“Steve,” she began. “Tonight is very important to your father. It’s his annual work Christmas party, and he’s trying so hard to make a deal with the remodeler -”

“I know, Mom,” Steve sighed. He thought, for a brief moment, of telling his mother why Billy was here, because, Steve knew, knew it from his red wrist and the tremble of his lip and the blurriness in his blue eyes, that something happened at home. He wanted, for a half second to tell his mom why  _ here _ was where Billy decided to go. Because Steve was the only one he ever talked to about this. And it wasn’t as if he talked easily, Steve has to pull it out of him like weeds rooted deep in the soil. But, still, Billy didn’t let anyone pull that out of him, only Steve, and something about that made Steve’s face feel warm.

He didn’t say any of this to his mom, though. 

“I know, I’m sorry. He’s just here to, um, grab some books for class. We’ll be quick.”

“Fine. Be very quick. And Steve?”

Already turning, half sliding on the kitchen tiles towards Billy, Steve hesitated. “Yeah?”

“Get that boy some hot cocoa, he looks like he needs it.” 

“This isn’t a great time,” Steve whispered, coming to stand in front of Billy. Billy was standing by the stairs, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor and scuffing the rug with his toes. 

“I’m sorry.”

Steve’s throat closed painfully. “It’s ok. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Billy shook his head. “No. Just needed to get away. Just needed…” He trailed off, running a hand through his long hair. He glared at the carpet, as if it had called him a bad name. 

Steve’s heart leapt. They’d been toeing a line for a while now, with touches that lingered too long, with the looks Billy sometimes gave him during practice, his eyes tracking Steve’s movement when Steve stretched, wiped sweat from his brow. 

Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t wake up aching in the morning, slipping his hand underneath his waistband, keeping his eyes closed to savor the dregs of the dream of Billy in bed beside him. 

“Needed what?” he asked, unable to hide the hint of hope in his voice. 

“Nothing.” Billy shrugged. His face colored pink, but he smirked, covering it up with a flash of white teeth. 

He heard shifting in the living room, his mom pulling a record from the shelf, and then  _ Silver Bells  _ started. 

Steve wasn’t that clever, or that’s what his parents told him, his dad saying he was built for sports and the career life, and his mom simply patting his head when he brought home an average report card, saying, “School has never been your strong suit, darling.” But he was sure about this, because he’d studied this subject with fervor, thinking about it for months; he was sure he was smart about whatever this was with Billy. 

He had studied Billy, scrutinized him for so long, and he knew when Billy closed himself off, scrunching his nose up and frowning. He knew that “nothing” meant something, and that something was, hopefully, the same something Steve had been mulling over in his mind. 

The merry green mistletoe winked at him when it caught the corner of his eye. So he decided to give it a shot.

“Hey, look,” Steve murmured, pointing up at the ceiling. 

Billy looked up, his wide grin fading slightly, licking his lips subconsciously. 

Steve took a slow step forward, Billy stepping back against the wall.

“Steve,” he started, voice husky. 

“Mistletoe,” Steve murmured. 

He gripped the front of Billy’s shirt and pulled him close.

When he pressed his lips to Billy’s it was awkward at first; Billy froze, mouth open just the tiniest bit, sucking in a sharp breath of surprise. 

Feeling his face heat up, Steve tried to draw away, for a wild moment he thought he’d been wrong. But then Billy moved, letting out a deep sigh and one hand moving up to grab Steve’s tie, tangling it around his wrist, the other sliding down and around to press into the small of Steve’s back. 

A shiver ran down Steve’s spine. He surged forward, sliding his tongue in between Billy’s lips, his arms wrapping around Billy’s shoulders. 

Steve was a good kisser, he knew this, he’d done a lot of practicing. It didn’t help his cockiness, when Billy made a tiny little whimper when Steve sucked on his bottom lip. 

Breathless, blood pounding in his ears, Steve pushed Billy into the wall, slipping his thigh in between Billy’s legs. Billy was hard, the rough denim of his jeans pressed into Steve’s dress pants.

He hissed “ _ Steve _ ” and that didn’t help with Steve’s ego either. 

Suddenly, too soon, Steve heard the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway. They broke apart, jumping away from each other, just as Steve’s mom shouted from the living room, “Is that your father?”

The front door banged open. 

“Who’s car is in my driveway?” 

Steve’s Dad, briefcase in hand, overcoat unbuttoned, a few hairs of his graying mustache askew, stood in the doorway. He looked around for a moment, zeroing in on Steve and Billy under the mistletoe. 

“Ah,” he said, his face going stern. 

“Hey, Dad,” Steve said sheepishly. 

“Steve. People are about to be here.” His dad eyed Billy for a moment. He could never remember Billy’s name, no matter how many times Steve reminded him. 

Steve coughed. “We were -” 

The door opened again and Mr. Harrington spun around. 

“Tom!” A tall woman, in a garish dress, short, round, husband hanging on her arm, spread her arms wide. “So good to see you! I hope we’re not too early?”

“Alice!” She spun around, eyes landing on Steve’s mom, entering the room. “And little Steve! Not so little anymore, are you, darling! Hello, who are you?”

She darted forward, husband swinging along beside her, holding out her hand for Billy. Billy shook her hand, casting a wide-eyed look Steve’s way. 

Steve smiled. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name (Phyllis? Phoebe? Something like that), all he knew was that she was an old friend of his father’s, and the rare times she made it to the family parties she dominated whatever room she inhabited. 

She started pelting Billy with questions (“Steve’s friend? From school? How do you like it here? Where are you from? OH, California!”) and launched into a tale about being on a movie set years ago. 

Billy stood there awkwardly, looking pleadingly, alarmed, at Steve, who slowly backed away, shaking his head. 

People steadily flowed in after that, soon filling the dining room, the living room, and the kitchen,  _ Jingle Bells _ floating in and out of various conversations, clinks of glasses, and laughter. 

Billy finally broke away and found Steve in the kitchen half an hour later, pouring a generous amount into vodka into two mugs of hot cocoa. 

“You left me, asshole,” he hissed in Steve’s ear, pressing his chest into Steve’s back. 

“You handled it well enough.” Steve smiled, a warmth, that had nothing to do with the vodka he’d already snuck, spreading through his veins and pooling in his stomach. 

He turned around and held out a mug to Billy, a peace offering. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he said. “My parents friends can be kind of terrible. And they get trashed at these things.” 

Billy took a sip of his cocoa. “I can stay, if you want.” 

He examined his nails, biting the corner of one, looking indifferent. He flicked his eyes up to Steve’s though, gauging his response. 

“I want you to stay,” Steve said, and smiled, when Billy let out a breathe that sounded like relief. 

“Sure thing, Harrington.” He nudged Steve’s foot with his own. “Just keeping supplying the cocoa.”


End file.
